


evergreen, newly born

by kalypsobean



Category: Forever (TV 2014)
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, Other, Temporary Character Death, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:08:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21753502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9
Collections: Writing Rainbow Green





	evergreen, newly born

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgylePirateWD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/gifts).



There it is again; that itch under his skin, the feeling as if it's too big and too small and not really his. It's not always predictable; sometimes he knows it's coming because it's been too long, but it can come in a day, or hours, after.

If he puts it off, it stays there, an insistent buzz - like radio static, the kind that lives in between stations and infects the clearest broadcasts at the first sign of bad weather. It worsens until he can't hear his thoughts for the noise in his brain and he's exhausted from keeping the twitches, the hyperawareness, under control. Air conditioning makes it worse, he learned when it was invented; he can't quite get used to having a breeze on his skin where there shouldn't be. Electronics make it worse; his hearing should be worse as he gets older, but he sometimes can't tell the quiet hum of a few small appliances apart from the prickling on the back of his neck.

He used to just disappear for a day or two, bury a bag somewhere along the East River, but now he doesn't have the luxury of time, not when bodies pile up and Jo could call him at any moment. It's not the kind of thing he can talk to Abe about, either; Abe will never be old enough to understand, won't ever be old enough to understand. He couldn't bear another round of disapproval, either; not when he's put it off enough that even just flexing his fingers makes things worse, more insistent. 

In all his years of experimenting he knows one way to make it stop. Sometimes he goes to a club, the kind that doesn't ask questions if you pay enough. Sometimes he just does it himself; it's not the same, but he's far more efficient, far more effective. Sometimes he wishes it was something he could share, something he didn't have to hide; it amuses him, sometimes, that people could be so wrong about the future. This time, it's a passing thought that's more irritating than wry, and he loses it in the noise.

Negotiations are quick; he's careful enough to not visit so often that it's unusual when his body doesn't show earlier marks, but still frequently enough to be considered a regular, someone who's serious enough to know their wants, who doesn't make trouble and appreciates not being questioned. (It helps that Molly had sent him, the first time.)

He doesn't even look up when someone enters the room, doesn't acknowledge the sound of heels or the touch of fingertips; he just closes his eyes and waits, breathes. 

The first one isn't enough; it's shallow, like someone's taking his measure, testing him. There's a scratch, a hint of a sting, but it sits on the surface and fades too quickly. He knows better than to look, to beg so early, but at the next touch he leans in; he can't help that much.

"You like that?" he hears, and then, "Good."

The next one is deep.

The next one bleeds. It's still not enough; it doesn't quite get him settled, but he can feel it enough to focus on it: the numbness, the coolness, the lightheadedness. 

The next one is the same, but on the other side. He would love to know what brand the knife is; he can feel how easily it slides through his skin, in a way that isn't just because of the wielder. He could ask; he could look up and ask and...

The next one makes him breathe out; he hadn't even realised he'd tensed, or been holding his breath, but this one seems to pull all of that out of him, as the blade slides along his spine (expertly even, he notes, and still just shallow enough to avoid permanent damage). Everything goes still for a moment, still and quiet and then he can think clearly for the first time in weeks. The next one is a pure white line, another mirrored cut; he can just feel it. A heady weakness in his arms, a slightly metallic taste on the air, icy coolness on his skin... it all reverberates somehow, as the flat of the blade is dragged over the marks with just enough pressure...

He lasts an hour, he thinks; he doesn't really check the time when he leaves. The sun isn't up, which is the main thing of note. He can blend in with a crowd of rumpled clubbers well enough; the smell of blood goes unnoticed in the midst of the smell of alcohol, and the actual reason his clothes are loose and creased would never occur to anyone unless they were close enough to see the blood just seeping into his shirt or the marks at the base of his neck. Still, he doesn't have to go far; a nearby alley, a dark corner, away from cameras. 

He's always surprised when he surfaces, not that he came back, but that the water doesn't sting on wounds that are no longer there.


End file.
